See Me, Feel Me

 

How often have you heard it?

"You are made in the image of God."

Sounds pretty good when you think of it. The love that God had for us when He decided to share His creation with a being that bore some kind of resemblance to Him hearkens back to the feeling we have when we look at our newborn and think he has our eyes or she has our smile. We belong together in some way. 

And we do. 

"Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky,"-Genesis 1:26

Hmmm. Made in God's image. You know what that means? If its Hebrew root matters, it comes from the word 'tsalem', which means 'shape' or 'shadow'. Something that kind of looks like something else, but isn't. Something that is connected to its source, something that conforms to its outline and follows it around but shares no common materiality or consciousness with it. Kind of like a mirror image or that dark spot behind you on a sunny day. There is shape but no substance. 

Now, that probably doesn't mean that God, excepting for Jesus, has arms and legs like we do, but it sure does sound like, if we are made in God's image, we are like Him in some very limited and imitative ways.

But, there's a second part to this verse. We are also made in God's likeness, and that comes from a different Hebrew word, 'demut'. This word means something else entirely. This word infers a kind of intimate blood relationship. It means to resemble someone in both appearance and action. 

This is where it gets interesting. 

It looks to me like 'image' is what we're given by virtue of being made human. It's something we are but 'likeness' is something else. It's something we do. It's what gives us the ability to take our proper place not only among the rest of God's creation but in doing so, also take our place beside God Himself as His earthly agents. God's likeness is what we acquire through living with Him and establishing the closeness to Him that grows our spirit to be more like His. It's what allowed Abraham to be God's friend. It's what allows us to establish a real fellowship with Him and to know Him. 

Image is what we are. Likeness is what we grow. 

There's seeing and there's feeling. Promise and fruit. We are never quite done, but the journey is both privilege and joy. 

Image: Fernando Rodrigues

No Fear - the Biblical Books of Wisdom

I want to say that I don't know what ever possessed me to teach the books of Wisdom - Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Job - but I'd be lying. I'm teaching them because they are unconventional, contrary, and packed with existential angst. Perfect.

We've gotten through the first two already, and are poised to begin Job tonight and only now do I begin to understand where this is all going. There's Proverbs with its neat, confident little phrases that don't always work out in real living. After all, the wise do not always have good fortune, do they? Nor do the diligent always enjoy wealth. Then there's Ecclesiastes, who, contrary to some translations, does not say that everything is meaningless, but that everything is the Hebrew hevel, meaning that they shift and fade like smoke. Gone the Proverbial confidence. Replace it with cynical reality, a world we know all too well in which we try to grab on to something only to see it fade away and disappear, leaving us feel a kind of betrayal. And of course, there's our friend Job, who suffers beyond imagination by God's specific proclamation just to see whether he will be able to remain loyal and faithful to God. He doesn't.

At the end of all this, all we really want is something that makes sense in the way we understand sense. We want God to be just. We want, actually, what Proverbs lays out. We want the world to give health and good fortune to the faithful and to punish everybody else. But it doesn't happen that way. We think that by the end of Job, God will explain how and why the world works as it does, but He explains nothing. God, when He finally gets involved openly in the whole Job affair, just sits back and dares anyone to be Him. Can you create a universe?, he asks. And, of course, we can't.

All we're left with is the idea that we need to live with the fear of the Lord. 

Really? Fear of the Lord, as I was taught, is a healthy respect for God - for who He is, for what He does, and what He gives. And that's all fine if there is some assurance that He will let me in on at least some of His reasoning. Come on, God. Give me a break. I keep asking Why and get no answer.

And God just smiles. 

And I've come to understand that this lack of explanation is where the fear part comes in. It's a kind of respect we're not used to. It's the kind that just asks us to remember who God is and who we are. He loves us but owes us nothing. We love Him and He tells us to trust and expect nothing but be grateful for everything. 

OK. Well, then, fear the Lord but fear nothing else. The road is wide open. It will need to be. I'm going to have to do more U-ey's than I thought.

Image: Reddit

Getting out from Under

 

I'm moving again.

Six years ago, I left the place I'd lived for more than twenty years, one that would have been a rural paradise in many minds, but for me had become oppressive in a way I could hardly describe.  And I did what so many my age and in my situation do - I downsized. I sold, discarded, burned, and gave away a lot of my possessions. 

It's a wearying thing, to do that. Not because one regrets getting rid of them, but because of the mental decision-making involved - evaluating their purpose and importance in one's life, and then doing whatever is the appropriate thing. There's only so much of that one can do in a day. There are some basic prinicples that can make it easier, though, and I've found ones that work for me.

More than anything else, I've found it imperitive that whatever I own serve me in some way. I'm sure you've discovered that much of what we own works the other way around - that what we own demands something from us. We have to store it, care for it, insure it, repair it...yada yada yada.  That, however, is not why we acquired them. We acquired what we own because they were supposed to add something to our lives so, as I make decisions about what to keep, I try to remember this.

What I own must still give me more, much more, than what I have to give it. The objects that surround me have to bring me some kind of pleasure commensurate with the trouble they cause. My car is a good example. It costs plenty to run and maintain, but I need to find pleasure in the way it looks, how it sounds, and the way it feels when I jump on the gas and maneuver it down the road. That's how it pays me back. More than just a way to get from one place to another, but something that has the ability to make my soul sing with freedom and skill.  Ahhhh...yes. 

Ah yes. Smooth. Quiet even under turbocharged acceleration. Comfortable. Solid. Reliable. Just today, when I was unloading some of my castoffs at the local Salvation Army, the attendant stood back and smiled. "That's my favorite car", he said. I smiled back. "Mine, too."  I will keep it as long as I can.

But as for all my other stuff. The stuff I'll have to move - or not have to move as the case may be. My partner, into whose house we are moving, keeps reminding me that we will have plenty of room for anything I want to bring. But that's not the point. The point is that the stuff I own needs to earn its way in my life. It needs serve me and to fulfill the purpose I had when I acquired it in the first place. The things I keep need to do more than bring me pleasure because they exist. They need to earn their place as symbols of beauty or memory or imagination. They need to be select and few so that their individual significance is not lost. I need to not only enjoy their use but their weight and meaning because outside of my imposition of meaning, they have none. 

They are just things. They get all of their importance from me and their importance is that I am enlarged, not enslaved, by them. 

Those that make the grade, well, welcome to my new life. Those that do not, I will not miss you. Which is kind of the point. 

Image: JWalking

Who Really Wants to Be Alone?

 

Ah, Greta Garbo. She was famous for saying she wanted to be alone.

Some people have crowded, even frantic, social lives. Some jealously guard their privacy to the point of barricading themselves and the places they live. Most of us live somewhere in between, trying to balance social and private lives, and we do it for different reasons. Sometimes it's just for the sake of sanity. Sometimes, we do it so that we can maintain a level of creativity that allows us to exercise the gifts we've been given. Sometimes, we do it so we make sure the members of our families aren't shortchanged in attention. Sometimes, we do it to grow our spirit. 

Greta is known for saying she wanted to be alone but it is less known that she made a distinction. She didn't want to be left alone, she said. She wanted to be let alone, and the difference for her was profound. The problem is that solitude has a partner - loneliness. No matter how much we sometimes crave peace and quiet, too much of it leads to a hollow result, a place where the echoes just get too loud. Sometimes, the solitude is worth the price. Sometimes not. 

It seems that solitude and community are not meant to be exclusive states. Each has a purpose. I don't need companions for everything - indeed, for some things they are counterproductive. But I do need them for some things. I've long held that a church community, for instance, is not the place I commune with God. It is far too loud for that. But it is the place I test and share that communion. 

There's an African proverb that says, "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together." As I hear that and think of the Kenyan Maasai - the tribe famous for running across the East African plains - and how they seem to be both alone and together at the same time, self-possessed but always aware they are in company with their fellow travelers.

I like the idea. It seems right to me. Finding the balance which, by the way, changes with times and situations, seems important. Right now, I feel it shifting. Having lived much of my adult life delighting in the company of friends often and well, the balance is shifting toward more quiet, maybe because I'm folding in the feathers of wings I spent a lifetime forging in preparation for final sleep. 

A friend gave me a copy of a book in 1990 to commemorate some plays we had read together with a group of others. It was a particularly sweet time and he included with it a quote by playwright and theologian Charles Williams:

"Much was possible to one in solitude; perhaps the final transmutations and achievements in the zones on the yonder side of the central knowledge were possible only to the spirit in solitude. But some things were possible only to one in companionship, and of these the most important one was balance. No mind was so good that it did not need another mind to counter and equal it, and to save it from conceit and blindness and bigotry and folly...balance - and movement in balance - as an eagle sails up on the wind - this was the truth of life and beauty in life."

Yes. I think Charles might have been right. 

Equality and the Philosopher Kings

 

It's hard to resist connecting theology and philosophy. They originally grew up together in the ancient world and it was only in the early 300s AD that they began to be forced apart. I maintain that they still belong together and are all the poorer for existing in different places, each denying the validity of the other, so today I'm going to try to piecemeal a partial reconciliation. Starting with Socrates.

Good old Socrates. Brilliant but elitist. He thought men were made of three kinds: The workers or producers who are ruled by appetite, the soldiers or protectors who are ruled by spirit, and the rulers or philosopher-kings, who are the advanced decision-makers ruled by logic. He thought men could be trained to advance from one kind to another, but most often, they were born to a certain type and were best off living within the confines of it. 

Was he right? Are there philosopher-kings who see farther and higher than others? Is is all right to praise these extraordinary people for this ability and to exult them for their vision? We do, you know. Are followers best off following? 

Well, think about it this way. We are all made in God's image, like God in that we are primarily spirit having a material experience. In this, we are all equal. But Socrates was right in that we may be equal by virture of our common humanity, but we are not the same. There are standouts among humans, standouts in courage and proclamation. They are not more human, but they are a different kind of human. By ignoring either of these premises, we have made ourselves poorer. We either deny the glory of man or deny his ability to attain the greatest heights to which he is able. I don't want to do either.

All humans are created equal. But they are not created the same. 

I once heard someone attest that a parent's highest responsibility was to help their child discover what they were made to do and help them attain it. They were right on two scores. First, that they were made by God and second that He made them for something particular in this world. One is based on faith and one is based on a school of philosophy. And they belong together.

Image: Psychiatric Times

75 and Counting - Growing Old as an Individual - Saying YES

I turned 75 yesterday. 

Time to pause. Time to reflect.

It's not the getting old thing that makes me stop and think. It's the living thing. The living, the fact that I'm still doing it, and since I am, I have to think about how. I thought I'd be sliding into home right about now, with little left to figure out. 

I was wrong.

Living never ceases to bring surprises, you see. But it's only the results that surprise. The getting there remains mostly consistent. By now, someone in my stage of life has developed a pattern or a worldview we use to navigate this living thing. Mine is two-pronged.

First, it's an attitiude of faith. It's consistently looking for God all around and in every activity. Second - and this is not contradictory - it's individualism. It's a view forward that drives me to do something no one around me is doing. Community is fulfilling and enjoyable, but it's aloneness that fosters an environment toward creation and invention. lt drives me toward success but often at the expense of fellowship. 

So I have to be careful. Careful not to isolate or insulate myself so much that I become unaware of the lives and struggles around me. 

 

But I take encouragement from the understanding that Jesus was an individualist. He was always aware of His mission and where it came from. Nobody shared it with HIm. He walked His path alone and never expected anything else. He finished what He started all by Himself. It was always supposed to be that way. 

However, He did it perfectly because He drew a community around Him at the same time He was doing it. He moved steadfastly along in His appointed way and taught while He did it so that when it was done, others could not only begin to understand but were able to follow. As He moved along, He accepted both the credit and the responsibility for His actions.

Others will not do what an individualist does, but they will watch and admire and take inspiration from it as they realize that such things are still possible. The people in this world are eager for the recognition of achievement and I'm finding that 75 is not too old to demonstrate it can still be done. And I'm finding that the only way is a simple one. 

Just say YES to what life brings my way. YES to trying something new and unexpected. YES to what sometimes looks dangerous but is offered as an opportunity. YES to relationships with people not at all like me. YES to what I'm not sure I can do but am willing to try anyway. YES to what I don't think I deserve. YES to uncertainty. YES to love.

So, it's 75 and counting. Here's to it. 

Bird on a Branch

 

I saw a bird this morning. 

It flew past my car as I was driving to the gym just after dawn and lit on the branch of a tree right in front of me. It was a slender branch, the only dead-seeming unleafed branch on an otherwise greened-out luxuriantly leafed maple. 

And the bird flew right to it, as though none of the others were quite right, somehow too unavailable or just not good enough. But the bird got a bit of a surprise. The branch barely held him. It was too small, too exposed, and it shook and swayed from even his slight weight. Oops. He almost fell off.

But he didn't. He could have flown away all right, but hung on until, finally, the branch stopped moving. It was bent, for sure, but it held and he seemed satisfied with his choice.

Why did I feel like him? Choosing the least likely, the least safe, the most exposed place to land, and then stubbornly hanging on? I've done it for sure. And it's not the first time. You'd think I'd be used to this by now.

It all started with the bet I made with my boss forty years ago. I wanted a job I wasn't qualified for and he offered me a deal - he'd give me the job, but if, in six months, I couldn't get up to speed and do it well, I'd get fired. No safety net. Well, it worked, and the job became a springboard for a whole series of promotions and life opportunities. 

And I took chances again and again. When I got my race car. When I met and married my late husband after two weeks of dating. When I became a teacher with no qualifications. When we moved to the farm. When I sold the farm and came here. When I went back to college to study philosophy. When I started preaching and teaching. And now, when I, who am turning a ripe 75 this week, said yes to a new love that comes with a whole list of cautions but promises more rewards than any I've ever known. 

Yup. me and the bird. Landing in the least likely place and sticking it. My branch is still rocking. 

image: Etsy